CHAPTER 6

Ben

It’s amazing what can be accomplished in short order, when your timing is lucky and your people are right.

It’s been only a week since Jim gave us the go ahead on the house. His crew is willing to work extra hours and weekends to get the foundation in, especially if brownies are part of the deal. That had made Isla blush, which was kind of cute, since she doesn’t seem to embarrass easily.

The road will be asphalted today and excavation should start up top. If not for the preparatory work Al did to have the site cleared, there may not have been enough time. It is touch and go as it is, but Jim seems hopeful.

The noise of the heavy machinery started when the sun was barely up. Good thing the eight remaining campsites house just hunters. All of them were out this morning, well before the sun rose.

“I’m sorry.” Isla’s voice is sleepy, her face pressed against my neck.

“For what?” I ask, lazily running my fingers through her short tresses.

“Making you come into Durango today.”

“Not a hardship, Pixie,” I respond on a chuckle. “You do your thing at that gallery, and I’ll keep myself busy. There’s a few places I want to hit up for trailer parts, and I can always drop in on Damian.”

“You sure?” she asks, lifting her head to look me in the eye.

“Babe.” I lift her face between my hands and kiss her to convey my message, before I pull the covers off us. “You grab a shower first, I’ll get coffee going.”

Reluctantly she swings her legs over the side, gets up, and pads in the direction of the bathroom. Her short hair is standing up in random directions, her cheek is creased with sleep lines, and the old shirt of mine she’s wearing is twisted around her waist, leaving one juicy butt cheek hanging out.

“I can feel you ogling me,” she complains, as she whips the shirt over her head and ducks into the bathroom.

“Appreciating, you mean,” I call after her, sitting up and tagging my jeans off the floor.

“Save it for when I don’t look like I just got zapped by ten thousand volts,” she yells back, and screeches the next moment when I duck my head through the door.

“You’re beautiful,” I assure her, before shutting the door and setting my mind to some coffee. A naked Isla is way too distracting and the fucking bathroom is way too small.

A bit of a purist when it comes to my coffee, normally preferring the old-fashioned brewing techniques, I’m getting quite attached to Isla’s Keurig. It’s all in the timing. I have my coffee ready by the time I’ve finished rubbing the morning crap from my eyes. Scratching my stomach, and mug in hand, I stick my head out the door.

The morning air is chilly and I quickly grab a sweater off the back of the door and tug it on. I take a seat on the picnic table, my feet on the bench, and look at the water. A light mist is coming off the reservoir, its temperature’s warmer still than the air. That will change over the next few weeks, I’m sure.

I look to my left, where the Deville is almost completely gutted. We’ve taken out what could be removed, and what is left are raw floorboards and the wood paneling that needs to be sanded and refinished next. Right behind it is the Airstream that Phil’s son hauled up the mountain the day before yesterday. That’ll be project number two. For now, it’s a good place to store the stuff we’ve pulled from the smaller trailer.

I’m still getting used to the fact I don’t constantly have to look over my shoulder. The job is so ingrained, that I find myself making mental notes of whatever I see around me. For instance, I can recite the license plate of every vehicle on this mountain. I can describe every camper and every man on Jim’s crew. Observing and being watchful has become second nature, and it’s not something you can just turn off.

But when my hands are busy, my mind stills. Restoring something to its former glory is a process that is addictive and easy to get lost in. First you strip everything down to the bare, ugly bones, before building it back up, layer by improved layer.

I turn when I hear the trailer door open behind me, and there’s Isla, who is her own brand of distraction and addiction, all rolled in one.

“Your turn,” she says, sitting down on the bench between my feet, wrapping her arm around my leg.

We sit like this for a few minutes, in companionable silence, sipping our coffee, and staring out on the water, before I get up and head inside for my shower.

-

“What’s wrong?”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard Isla hiss between her teeth since we passed Mancos.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “Probably just something I ate.” I’m not buying it. She had a damn piece of toast for breakfast, didn’t want anything else. I glance at her and catch her watching me. Her face is pale and her eyes look pained.

“Try again,” I say, before focusing back on the road.

“Fine,” she spits out, and I can almost hear the eye roll. “I’m probably getting my period. It can get bad.”

Of course. I’m not oblivious to what happens, but frankly I don’t usually give it much thought. Never have that is, until now. With Isla it’s different. There were a few times I’ve been a bit lax with the protection, but she’s assured me she’s taken care of. Not even sure what the hell I’m thinking. My mind has no business going there, but the thought of planting something inside her wouldn’t be a horrible thing.

“This is the first time you’ve had one,” I point out.

“I’m irregular, always have been. Even on the pill.”

“Do you want me to turn back home?” I ask as we drive into Durango.

“Hell, no. Best to muscle through it, I’ll be fine. If you could just stop at Walgreens, so I can pick up some stuff.”

Curious, I trail into the drugstore behind her.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, when I follow her down the aisle with feminine products. I have to admit, not a place I’ve ever found myself before.

“Learning,” I explain, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. “I wasn’t around when my sister hit her teenage years, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have learned anything from my mother. My job didn’t really allow for any kind of relationship outside of my assignment, so consider me uneducated on the subject.” I chuckle at the look of disbelief on her face.

“Why?” she asks, obviously puzzled.

“So next time, you can keep your ass in bed, where you belong, and I’ll get you what you need.” I shrug when her mouth drops open.

“I’m not sure if I should hug you or kick your shin right now,” she huffs, but she does it smiling, which I’m hoping means my shins are safe. I hook her around the neck and give her noogies. “Watch your shins,” she growls in warning.

I’m taking note of everything she dumps in the basket, including the bag of mini Reese’s Pieces. Mainly because she holds it up before dropping it in, saying; “Chocolate is an imperative part of the cure.” I take that to mean, don’t ever come home without it.

When I drop her off in front of the gallery, she looks a little better, but I make her promise to call me if she wants to go home. I wait until she disappears through the door before I drive off to find the parts place.

It’s not easy leaving her, when I know she’s nervous as hell about meeting this Ryan DeGroot guy and having her stuff on display, not to mention when she’s already feeling ill. Not easy, but it’s important. This is something she has to own completely.

The back of the Land Cruiser is packed, with replacement wood paneling for the few pieces that were damaged, a new sink and counter, and a variety of hoses, clips, odds and ends. I’m about to head over to the small FBI field office on Rock Point Drive, to see Damian, when my phone rings.

“Hey, Pixie,” I answer when I see her on the call display. “You done already?”

“Can you please come?”

I don’t like the sound of her voice—at all.

With a screech of tires, I whip the SUV around in a U-turn and head back to the gallery.

Isla

Part of me wants to call after Ben—get him to come in with me—but instead I try to ignore the sharp cramps low in my stomach, straighten my shoulders, and march into the place like I belong there.

“You’re Isla,” the well-groomed, handsome gentleman behind the counter says, offering his hand.

“I am.” I put my hand in his and notice immediately how smooth his palm feels against mine. So different from Ben’s callused ones. His shake is firm enough and his appeal is obvious, I can see what had Jen a little flustered when she spoke of him.

“Let me show you the space,” he says with warm smile. “The mounts all arrived yesterday, and I have to say, your guy does great work.” My guy, meaning Nate at SouthWest.

“I’ll be sure to tell him, I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it.”

I follow him around a narrow floating wall, which breaks the long space into sections without cutting it up. You can pass easily on either side to reach the back gallery. Where the front section is an assortment of eclectic art from ultra modern to classic, this back section is like one, big, blank canvass. Gray washed floors, eggshell walls, and minimalistic halogen lighting designed to draw attention to the space, not the fixture. A perfect backdrop to my images. The only color in the space will be the golden yellow I’ve left in the photographs.

Time gets away from me as I help Ryan first set out the prints, in the order I see them, before hanging them. There is an easy atmosphere in the gallery, only interrupted a few times when he has to go tend to a customer. I stay in my anonymous bubble behind the floating wall.

He seemed understanding that I prefer to keep a low profile. It’s mostly for self-protection. What if people hate my pictures? I know they’ve sold at The Pony Express, but most of those folks are locals and just buying a pretty picture. Here they’re supposed to represent art, and I still can’t get over myself as just someone who likes to take pretty pictures. Never could quite figure out what art was supposed to look like.

The prints are beautiful, if I say so myself. The stark black and white images, with only the changing leaves of fall standing out in color, look perfect in this space. My name, I. Ferris, is printed in my digitalized signature on the bottom right-hand corner of each image. Ryan has adjusted the focus of the light fixtures, so that the light appears to bounce off the gold in the prints.

I’m pleased. I’m more than pleased, and part of me wants to be a fly on the wall tonight, when the exhibition officially launches. Jen is going to be here in my place, though. It’s better: I’m not big on crowds or mingling with strangers. Besides, now that the rush of getting the gallery ready is gone, my stomach is really making itself known.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, putting a hand on my back when a particularly nasty cramp has me doubled over. “Would you like to sit down?” I shake my head and reach for my purse.

“I’m fine. It’ll pass,” I lie, grinding my teeth as I throw a fake smile. “I’m just going to call my ride and be off.”

Gentleman that he is, Ryan turns away and busies himself at the counter, giving me the privacy to make a call.

“Can you please come?” I have to fight not to sob, when another wave of cramps steals my breath.

“On my way, babe. Five minutes tops.”

The familiar rasp of Ben’s voice instantly soothes, but a moment later I’m doubled over again. I barely notice being guided to the small love seat on the other side of the counter, or the hand that slips the phone from mine.

“Hello? Yes, this is Ryan. I own the gallery? She’s not looking too good—Okay, I’ll bring her out.” The next thing I know, I’m on my feet again, being shuffled out the door, where a pair of strong, familiar arms scoop me up and put me in a vehicle. I vaguely register Ben’s voice as he tries to put a seat belt on me, and all I can do is slap at his hands.

“Fine,” I hear him mutter. “We’ll do without.”

A door slams shut, and then we’re moving. It feels like something is tearing at my insides, trying to claw its way out, and every bump and rut in the road aggravates it. I just concentrate on breathing.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when the door opens beside me; arms lift me and carry me into an unfamiliar building.

“Hospital,” Ben says reassuringly in my ear, when I try to ask him. Not much more than a pathetic whimper comes out. “Acute abdominal cramping,” I hear him say. If I weren’t in so much agony, I might have giggled at his officious tone.

-

“Is this the first time you’ve had this happen?”

The fresh-faced doctor moves the cold wand of the ultrasound over my stomach.

Not sure what they gave me, but I feel a lot better than when Ben first carried me in. He’s sitting like a growling bear beside me, refusing to be removed from my side. Not that I want him to go.

“I’ve never been what you call regular and sometimes get sharp cramps a few days before I get my period, but nothing like this, no.”

He puts the wand away, and carefully wipes at my stomach with a towel to clear off the gel, before he sits on the edge of the bed. I squeeze Ben’s hand when I see him glare at the doctor, who seems oblivious and starts explaining.

“I suspect you have something called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS for short. We’ll do a few more tests to confirm, but it’s clear from the ultrasound that there are a number of cysts on your ovaries. What you’ve experienced is a ruptured cyst. It can be very painful, but most of the time is not something worrisome. It tends to resolve itself, within a few days, as your body reabsorbs the tissues. What I’d like to do is send you home with some painkillers to get you through the next few days and make an appointment to see you soon, so we can get going on a treatment plan.”

“Is there someone a bit closer to home?” Ben pipes up, and the doctor looks his way with an eyebrow raised. “No offense to you, Doc, but with winter coming, I’d feel a lot better if my girl had someone looking after her in Cortez. Someone who is not a two hour drive away, on the best of days.”

“Fair enough,” he says, smiling first at Ben and then at me. “Cortez? I can refer you to someone there.”

“What about kids?” I blurt out, shocking myself. I’ve heard of PCOS, heard of people having a hard time getting pregnant. Not that I was necessarily looking to have kids, but it would be good to know if I could. If I wanted one. Maybe.

I already suspect the answer when I see the doctor glance uncomfortably from Ben to me. “That’s something we perhaps should address when we’ve confirmed with testing?”

Ben’s hand pulls mine closer, and he rests them against his chest, looking at me before he says to the younger man, “Just answer the question, Doc.”

“When it’s diagnosed early and treated, the chances are better. Age comes into play, level of damage done to the ovaries. I think it’s fair to say the odds are slim.”

I close my eyes. The answer doesn’t really surprise me, but the reality of what he’s saying is poignant, especially since I’m holding hands with the first man to ever put the thought of kids in my mind. I force the burning tears back, but I guess one slips underneath my eyelid. I don’t notice it until the rasp of Ben’s thumb wipes it away.

“Not something we’ve had a chance to even consider, and already the option is gone,” I whisper into the palm he presses to my face.

“Shhh,” he hushes and I open my eyes. The doctor must have snuck out because it’s just Ben and me. “I never thought about kids before. Never had reason to. I do now. But I also know jumping the gun does no one any good, so let’s make sure all the information is in before you declare your option gone.” I warm at the smile in his eyes, and watch as they start to twinkle. “There’s more ways to skin a cat.” I haul back and punch his shoulder.

“We’re talking cute little babies and you bring up skinning cats? What’s wrong with you?” I scold him, not quite able to keep the grin off my face at his attempt to lighten the mood, which was clearly successful.

He leans over the bed, wipes the hair off my forehead before pressing a kiss there, on the tip of my nose, and finally to my lips.

“I just needed to see that smile, Pixie.”